


i'll make the world safe and sound for you

by rad_sad



Series: i'm dedicating every day to you [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is suffering, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, hamilton is younger, washington is in ultimate dad mode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_sad/pseuds/rad_sad
Summary: life takes and it takes and it takes but how George wished it didn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna do a happy-ish and funny-ish fic but then i listened to the reprise of stay alive and i thought "hey!!! why not SUFFER instead!???" 
> 
> and i was like "sure thing!!"

**iii.**

George was  _tired_.

He was ankle deep in muck and shit and blood ( _someone collapsed beside him and didn't get up_ ) and his stomach was tying itself into knots from the hunger that was burning away his insides, gnawing and eating George from the inside out. The bite of the cold had settled its teeth into George, locking his fingers into a permanent position around the trigger; he wouldn't have the ability to pull the trigger even if he needed to. His breath fogged in the darkness, columns of mist swirling up and up before disappearing into the night sky. George felt as if he wasn't even truly alive at that moment, that his existence was fuzzy and blurred at the edges; he was an endless loop of hunger pangs, sore muscles and creaking bones.

The previous never ending rounds of gunfire had silenced themselves, the echoes of the previous battle lingering in the fallen leaves and men as the stench of blood, piss and vomit began to lace itself in the air. The frost of the winter was setting itself over the earth, catching itself on the silky threads of cobwebs and the soaked cuffs of his coat. Still, he stood tall and unmoving as his eyes narrowed at his surroundings; he was afraid to let go of the pistol strapped to his side lest should another British soldier appear from the bushes to shoot at him. Around him lay the bodies of British and his own men alike (though, thankfully, more red than blue lay about) and George couldn't stop the sigh that fell past his lips. Once in a while, another gunshot would crack through the fog of the early morning that ghosted around his ankles.

George wanted to sleep, wanted to kick his boots off and lie down on his own bed with Martha beside him, wanted to be able to get a proper night's sleep without the worry that someone might sneak in and slit his throat. He wanted to be able to eat a proper meal and not live off of stale bread and watered down liquor. Alas, war was not a time to be picky. Still, he couldn't help but notice the effects of the wartime on others; the soldiers seemed to unable carry themselves anymore, the sickbay growing more and more every day. But they still fought, still continued to wake up every morning in hopes that they would be able to secure a home for their own family.

Everyday was closer to him returning to Mount Vernon; for Lafayette, it was closer to him returning to France. For most soldiers, there was a home waiting for them after this war was over and many hoped that it would end soon.

Except Alexander.

Where most would crack beneath the pressure, Alexander seemed to flourish like his pen against paper; he was an endless source of chatter and opinion, always wanting to help, always wanting to jump into action. He was a boy playing at war, too ready to jump at the opportunity to go out onto the battlefield. It took nearly every muscle in George's body to not get rope and strap the boy down in a chair, being confined to holding a quill and his only battle being with against getting resources and men from congress. Despite the hopeful turn in the war, the worry and anxiety still managed to sink its claws into George's heart. What if by this time tomorrow, he would be dead? What if tomorrow Alexander would be dead? He was younger than Lafayette, too quick to act when someone wronged him, too hot headed and not enough sense. He chafed beneath George's command - or rather, George's wanting to protect Alexander from being shot.

The boy actually seemed upset over the fact he wasn't allowed to run headfirst into battle, preventing him from dying.

He would thank George when he was older, even if he couldn't see why the General was preventing him from taking action now, the boy would surely realise it later. He would be grateful to be able to grow old when men he knew and fought with would be forever twenty-two, stuck in their blue coats and never able to see the nation they fought for. George had already had Alexander write too many letters home to mothers and fathers, to sisters and brothers, to wives, who would be waiting and waiting for someone who would never be coming home. Each letter was like a new burden George had to carry, one reminding him that independence was built on the graves of men and women who died for freedom.

Another gunshot went off and George was tired.

How he would have liked to be able to send a letter to the King, politely explaining that they would like to be independent and, no thank you, they would not like to be a part of Britain anymore. It was a fun run but it wasn't working out anymore so he can simply pull out all his troops out of America. Thanks for the memories, yours sincerely, General George Washington.

Sadly, he couldn't and instead, they had to fight for the freedom they wanted.

Whatever enemy survivors that were left behind were being gathered up, some near death's door, knocking shoes against the outside frame to get rid of the dirt that clung to the soles of their boots, while others were only worse for wear, grim and stone faced. The stench of death was sharp, clinging to the inside of George's nose, as he stared down at the British soldiers, some young, some old, and tried to remember that these were men with mothers and fathers, wives and siblings, who were fighting for a cause just like he was. But humanising the enemy could only mean his downfall so instead he decided that it was either them or him.

"Sir!"

George turned and saw, to his relief, it was Alexander walking up behind him, a small smile playing on the edges of his lips. The boy's hair was a knotted and messy nest, giving him a halo of brown curls, and his cheeks were red, rose petals blooming beneath the skin. There was a cut on his cheek bone, a red ribbon melting down the plain of his jaw; George grimaced at that, pursing his lips as the boy walked closer to the General. George almost wanted to make a fuss, wanted to make sure the boy hadn't been hurt anywhere else. Alexander's coat was splashed with crimson, the sight making George feel queasy - the fact he didn't know it was Alexander's or another's made him feel even worse.

The boy stood next to him, fiddling with the cuffs of his coat, pushing and rolling them up so that they would not fall over his knuckles and inhibit his movements, and began rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, as if he was unable to stand still. He seemed giddy, too happy for someone who was just in a battle. Then again, the boy thrived where most didn't. George quickly did a survey of Alexander, just to make sure the boy had all his limbs in place, with five fingers on both hands and could only see the boy walking with a slight limp in his left leg. There was no sign of blood or a bullet hole so George could only conclude that the boy had managed to injure his ankle. Probably from rushing and running to join the thick of the fight. He remembered how Lafayette had been shot in the leg  _without even realising_  and he swore that these two would drive him into an early grave if the war didn't.

The frost clung to the ends of Alexander's curls, like little diamonds glittering and glinting in the dull light; winter had long since settled in, its cold touch caressing the earth, leaving behind a trail of frost and bitterness. George couldn't remember the last time he had been truly warm. He had never felt as old as he did when he could feel the weather wear him down, making his chest ache and bones creak. Alexander was a ball of energy, like a pup who wanted to know all his surroundings and wonder why everything was the way it was, all the while running back and forth on uneven legs. It was during times like this that George remembered just how young Alexander was, despite the boy's protests that he was not too young.

The boy stood to the right of him, eyes watching the other men begin to round up the surviving enemies, pursing his lips and knotting his hands behind his back, standing up straighter and almost mimicking George's stance. His breath came out in columns of fog, snuffling and sniffling. George wouldn't be surprised if Alexander would be ill by this time tomorrow, for even he was beginning to feel light headed and coughing more than usual. George wasn't too worried about himself (he had survived through worse) but Alexander on the other hand...

"A great victory, sir," Alexander spoke, voice cracking slightly. The boy seemed to be rather self conscious over the fact his voice continued to crack and squeak in the oddest of places; it was rather amusing to watch him go red in the face, the tips of his ears hinting scarlet and his cheeks a deep blush when he was embarrassed over it. The boy never seemed to really recover from Lafayette's teasing of him some nights ago where the French man remarked at just how  _adorable_ Alexander was ( _mon ami, tu es trop mignon! My heart simply cannot bear it!_ ) and pinched the boy's cheek, much to Alexander's complete and utter horror. 

George had chuckled at the sight - not that he would  _ever_ admit that to Alexander.

"Winning a battle does not mean winning the war, son; it'd be good to remember that," George replied. Alexander deflated slightly, his smile dropping a bit. George peeked at the boy from the corner of his eye, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to curb the hunger gnawing away at his insides before giving a small cough. Unwinding his hand from behind, George reached up slowly to place a hand on Alexander's shoulder, the action causing the boy to be startled and look at him. "Nonetheless, well done, Alexander. Good work, son."

The reaction was almost instant, a flurry of different emotions. Alexander's face fell for a brief moment, a sheepish grin slowly unfolding across his lips as redness grew beneath his cheeks and he looked away. George remembered when Jacky would react in the same way, embarrassed that he was praised; George would have ruffled that lad's hair had they not been on a battle field and if he knew Alexander would not hiss and recoil. "Thank you, sir."

George dropped his hand, wringing his fingers behind his back as Alexander dropped his head, unsure of what to say or do. The boy was unused to any affection at all, even from his friends. On page, the boy could write wonders for the world but remained unsure of how to display such emotions towards others. George saw how the boy was almost uncomfortable around the other soldiers and their easy display of camaraderie. He had practically been a stuttering mess when a drunk John Laurens threw his arm around the boy and remarked, quite loudly and sweetly, how pretty Alexander's eyes were to said person. Alexander seemed to recoil whenever George tried to praise him ( _But I'm not y_ - the sentence was left hanging before Alexander clamped his mouth shut, dropping his eyes before a quite and meek 'thank you sir' when George thanked him for writing letters to congress one night).

"It's no prob - "

A shout drew both Alexander and George's attention, turning towards where the lined of surviving redcoats were; a man, half his face covered in blood, was grappling with one of George's men, hand wrapped around the gun that was strapped to the man's side. Anger and fury like no other was burning behind the dull green eyes of the British soldier as he drew the pistol, pushing away the soldier trying to stop him, pointing the gun towards George and the world seemed to stop when he heard the trigger.

George had lived through many battles, had lived through many bullets that could have been his last. Was this where Death was going to get him? Victory a thread away, the possibility of a life after war? Was this to be the bullet that knocked him back, to take away all that he loved? He would have let out a sigh at the irony of it all; of course he would die when there was a possibility of a tomorrow and victory in the air. Life was cruel and it laughed at him, taking everything and every hope George clung to.

Another shout, louder than the ones that were in the back of George's mind, as a force hit him in the stomach, sharp and leaving a dull throb. It didn't rip through him like a bullet should (George had been shot enough times to be able to tell) and the air was knocked out of his lungs, feet stumbling backwards as the world was a blur of green, white, and red. Something warm and wet splashed across his cheeks as George fell to the ground, twigs snapping beneath his weight with his head cracking against the ground, blurring his vision and there was a ringing in his ear.

The world smelled of smoke and there was another gun shot before silence fell upon them all.

For a moment, George lay still, trying to remember that he needed to breathe to survive as he stared up at the canopy of dead leaves, the grey sky reminding George of a cotton blanket covering the world beneath. The sun was hazy behind the clouds, winking and glinting as the rays reached their fingers through the leaves to fall on the dead forest floor beneath. A gasp fell past George's lips as he took a breath, one that felt like the first he had ever taken. A fish out of water, struggling and gasping as his hand went to his stomach. The pain was fading, dripping away but there was no sign of a bullet entrance, no sign of blood. His hand was shaking as his mind was racing at a pace George could not keep up with. His breath fogged in the air as George blinked, trying to control his vision, his hand reaching up to his cheek to rub away the ooze. George pulled his fingers away from his cheek to see the all too familiar red stain that was rapidly cooling due to the dropping temperature. It wasn't his because George wasn't shot and George wasn't shot because -

He pulled himself up, his surroundings spinning as men began to rush around him, a flurry of  _sir are you alright_  being indistinguishable. They were trying to help him to his feet but George's legs had lost all ability and his eyes focused on what lay before him. A scream was building at the back of his throat but couldn't be let out.

 _So much blood, too much, oh dear God no, no, no, **no** -_  

Alexander, young Alexander who was only seventeen years of age and cringed at the taste of whiskey, whose voice still cracked and squeaked from not settling,  _who had a bed of rose petals blooming across his abdomen._  

The boy was gasping for air, unable to tell his body that it needed air to survive, and he was clutching at his stomach, words spilling past his lips. He was sprawled on the forest floor and the incomprehensible words that were falling off his tongue where turning to shouts of help, hand wrapped around the wound to stop the bleeding. People were scrambling around George as he tried to think, tried to remember what to do when someone was shot.  _Alexander was shot, he was **shot**. He could die. No, no, no, no_. George pushed away the hands that were grabbing him, stumbling his feet towards Alexander, who was still struggling to breathe. George dropped next to the boy, watching his eyes focused straight ahead, unable to see George, as the dirt on his smooth face was being swept away by the tears that were slowly but surely falling. 

 _Stop the bleeding,_  echoed in his mind as his hands wavered, unsure of what to do. A medic, they needed someone on sight. If George tried to do anything, he could make it worse, potentially cause Alexander's death or, worse, make him suffer even more. His hands fumbled with Alexander's shirt, ripping the buttons off as two other men rushed to help him, holding the boy down as he continued to flounder. Someone shouted that he was on his way to get a doctor. 

The wound was near Alexander's side, a little above the hip; he was gasping, crying, trying to say something. George practically ripped his own coat off, tearing at his sleeve so that he could press it up against the injury, trying to lessen the loss of blood. The boy let out a cry as George pressed the material against his skin, a guttural and choked sound; George couldn't afford to collapse, couldn't afford to break. The boy's hand reached up, fingers knotting themselves in the material of George's only other remaining sleeve. A bloody hand print against the soft cotton.

"It burns, it _hurts_ ," the boy sobbed, another cry breaking through as George pressed harder down on the wound with both hands. From the corner of his eye, George could see the dead body of the British soldier as his blood soaked the earth beneath. Alexander was being held down to stop his thrashing as George caved in, shifting his weight and pressing down with one hand with all the strength he could muster as his free hand found its way to cradle the boy's head, hushing noises escaping him. "Please make it stop. It burns. It hurts, it hurts."

"It's alright, Alexander, the doctor's coming," George reassured as his thumb swept away the strands of hair that were sticking themselves to Alexander's sweaty forehead. "It's going to alright, son, just hold on." His heart was pounding in his chest, stomach knotting itself in worry and desperation as he began to pray to God, pray that He wouldn't take this boy away from him. Alexander seemed unable to understand the words leaving George's mouth, muttering and sobbing  _it burns, it burns, it hurts_  over and over as tears began to make their way faster down his cheeks. Already the material pressed over the injury was becoming redder. 

George had never felt so helpless, had not felt like he was out of control for the longest of time. Every time he gave an order, it was with knowing that some men might not return. But now,  _now_ , George felt weak, felt useless as the boy sobbed uncontrollably, asking George to make the pain go away - if George could stop Alexander from being in any kind of pain, he would have done it without a moments hesitation. He would have done anything then if it meant that Alexander wouldn't have to suffer through this. A sob was building at the base of George's throat as he continued his attempts to comfort Alexander; his own eyes were beginning to prickle, threatening to let tears fall down his cheeks as a steady string of  _it'll be okay, I'm here_  and  _you can do this, son, just be brave_  left his mouth. It took everything within the General to not give in to his emotions and break down. The sound of running feet could be heard as people cleared for the doctor to make his way through.

The doctor was saying something, the words not reaching George's ears as his hand was pushed away with the blood soaked rag still in his grip. He moved so that he would be able to cradle Alexander's head, fingers getting caught in the knots of curls that were filled with twigs, leaves and dirt; he felt unsure of what to do or say as he continued trying to soothe the distressed Alexander, watching the doctor as he examined the wound; there was no exit wound and they would have to take the bullet out. A white cloth was brandished and the doctor handed it to George, a grim look on his face. George ignored the ache in his chest as the a wave of nausea hit him. He rolled it up and lifted Alexander's head up onto his lap, the boy drifting in and out of consciousness as George managed to slip the cloth between the boy's teeth.

The muffled screams that left the boy would haunt George for the rest of his life. 

They had hold down Alexander's arms and legs to prevent him from kicking or hitting anyone and inhibiting the doctor's work. George leaned over the boy, thumb rubbing circles across the boy's tear stained cheek, trying to hush him. It felt as if the moment lasted an eternity before the doctor pulled free the bullet, a triumphant look on his face as the boy's movement slacked. Worry and fear like no other filled George as his hand drifted beneath the boy's nose, relief spreading when he felt Alexander's warm but shallow breathing. He was pale and covered in sweat, tears and blood, bare chested as the doctor began to stitch up the wound that seemed too small to inflict so much pain and produce so much blood.

 _He'll survive,_ the doctor told George.

George nearly broke down into tears. 

Not even when they had to carry Alexander back by a stretcher did George let go of Alexander's limp hand, the cold attacking his skin as a mantra of  _he'll live, he'll live_  repeated in his head.

George refused to leave the boy's side, not even bothering to change into another shirt and simply slipped his coat on over as he sat next to the boy, his breathing being the most soothing sound George could ever hope to hear. He had insisted the boy be allowed to rest in George's bed, which would be far more comfortable than his own. Nothing would be able to tear him away from Alexander's side, sitting quietly at his bedside, trying to remember when was the last time he had felt so fraught with distraught and panic-stricken. He recalled of one winter many years ago when Patsy was taken with a flu, coughing throughout the night and with her frail body overcome with a chill and uneven breathing. George had stayed by her bedside throughout the night, refusing to even sleep lest she began to find it hard to breathe. The doctor had said should she survive the night, she would be better.

Oh, and never had a night seemed so long before than it did then.

Until now.

George made sure to keep a doctor nearby in case there was a change in Alexander's breathing. George pressed the back of his hand to the boy's sweaty forehead, the warmth reminding him of a furnace. He was sickly pale, lips dry and eyes twitching beneath his eyelids as his moth like breathing filled the tent. The blankets were pulled up to the boy's chest, his head resting on the softest pillow's George had to offer. The silence was thick and George finally caved.

His head in his hands, he tried to stop the oncoming wave as his breathing began to fasten, shallow and quick, as his eyes prickled.  _If the bullet had aimed any higher..._  George's eyes began to prickle from unshed tears as a lump formed in the base of his throat, heart beating like a drum beneath his rib cage. He should have saw it coming, should have tried to stop it. His fingers gripped at the strands of hair, his jaw clenching as more what if _'_ s began to flood George's mind. It was his fault; he shouldn't have let Alexander leave the safety of his desk. He should have dug his heels in and said  _ **NO**_. Alexander may have detested him for a short while but he would have been safe and healthy.

"Sir?"

The gentle croak caused George's head to snap up, glistening eyes meeting Alexander's bleary ones. The boy was attempting to sit up, his hair a rat's nest, as he tried to readjust to his surroundings. George instantly bolted to his side, his hand on the boy's shoulder to gently push back down onto the bed.

"Shh, it's alright son. You're back at camp," George said, his tone soft as Alexander flopped back into bed at George's insistence. "Don't try to move; I don't want you to rip out those stitches." Alexander gave a huff, though it was weak, and lay back comfortably on  the bed, locking his fingers over his stomach, wincing slightly as he rested the weight of his hands on it. 

"It would appear that I've been shot, sir," Alexander croaked, his voice cracking at the words. His Adam's apple was bobbing as he took an unsteady, deep breath. George chuckled at his words, almost shaking his head at the boy's attempt to lighten the situation.

"Yes, it would appear so," George confirmed, a ghost of a smile appearing at the edges of his mouth. There was a heartbeat pause of silence before Alexander spoke again.

"Am I going to die, sir?" The boy's eyes, wide and unblinking, were focused on George; he could see the fear and worry laced within the intricate colours of Alexander's eyes. George placed his hand at the top of Alexander's head, smoothing down the messy curls and shook his head, a sad smile now replaced on his lips.

"No, no, no, no Alexander, you're not going to die."  _Thank God._  The boy let out a sigh of relief and the corners of his mouth turned up, eyes beginning to droop.

"You wouldn't be able to get rid of me that quickly, Father," Alexander quipped, his words becoming slurred as a yawn clawed its way through despite Alexander's attempt to smother it. His eyes closed, as his breathing began to drift evenly. George felt his stiffen, from both shock and surprise at the accidental slip Alexander had said. The tears were threatening to spill again as George pressed his lips together to stop a small sob leaving him. George let out a small, breathy chuckle, blinking away the gathered tears, shaking his head as his shoulders dropped and the stress he had pent up being realised. Confident that the boy was asleep, George lent forward, pressing his lips to the boy's sweaty temple.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, son."

**Author's Note:**

> and once again you can tell that i ran out of steam near the end it took me four days to write this bc i kept rewriting it 
> 
> i just wanted alex and george to suffer and for washingdad to become ultimate mother hen leave me alone


End file.
